Hmmmm. What have we here? I did some quick calculations. Sophie was forty-seven when she died. Peter Olsen had said both he and Hollowell were just one year older. That meant Hollowell was about twenty-three when this company was incorporated. That seemed mighty young to begin a new and thriving corporation, but it could be done.
Still, it could be a toehold.
I plugged in the web address for the research site used by most lawyers and law firms. After providing my password, I did a search under California Business and Corporation Information. Several hits popped up. I focused on the first one, only to find the same information I had discovered on the Secretary of State's site, except that this also listed John Hollowell as the president and chairman of the corporation. Not surprising that he was the big cheese of the whole shebang.
Scrolling down, I clicked another possibility, but it was just a fictitious name filing. Hollowell-Johnson Investment Company had filed the appropriate forms in Orange County to do business under HJ Financing. That had been about nine years ago. The next search result was similar, only this time the filing had been in Los Angeles County. The information for both was straight forward and unremarkable. It was the description of the next search item, the fourth finding, that caught my eye.
In the State of California, if a corporation wishes to change its name, it must file a Certificate of Amendment with the Secretary of State. According to the records I found online, Hollowell-Johnson Investment Company had once been called Woodall Development Corporation. The change had been made eighteen years ago.
Yanking my tote bag from my side desk drawer, I rummaged through it, locating the old newspaper clippings. I scanned the dates quickly.
Woodall died twenty-two years ago. Baby Hollowell died seventeen years ago. Somewhere in between, John Hollowell had married Woodall's widow, sired a son by her, and changed the name of her dead husband's company to his own name.
Nice work if you can get it.
Quickly, I input a new search command. This time for Woodall Development Corporation.
Scanning the list of short descriptions for each search result, I settled on one promising hit. It was the corporate information for Woodall Development Corporation at the time of its incorporation. I read the computer screen, then compared it with the printed page of information for Hollowell-Johnson Investment Company.
The registered agent for both Hollowell-Johnson and Woodall Development had been someone named Glenn Thomas. Not unusual since it had been a simple name change. The address for service on the registered agent was an address in Santa Ana. Thomas was probably an attorney or officer of the corporation. Too bad the entire slate of officers wasn't listed on either web site I was using; it would have been helpful. California requires that each corporation file a Statement of Officers with the Secretary of State's office, but a copy could take three to seven working days to obtain.
Glenn Thomas. Glenn Thomas. I'd heard that name before. But where? My memory was working hard to jog a pebble loose, but to no avail.
Checking my watch again, I noted that it was almost six. I still had some things to get done before I left for my working vacation. Reluctantly, I closed down the site, but not before printing the new information out.
Glenn Thomas. The name lingered on my tongue along with the bitter cold coffee I was drinking. I knew it would come to me. These things always nagged me until I remembered them, usually in the shower or in the middle of the night.
"YOU COME TO the restaurant, Greg Stevens, and I will personally steal the wheels off your chair and leave you up on concrete blocks!"
Cradling the cordless phone between my left ear and my shoulder, I continued getting dressed for my dinner date with Hollowell.
"It's not safe, Odelia," Greg replied. His voice was strong and insistent. "You shouldn't go alone."
I was wearing my relationship undies—black silk bra and matching hi-cut panties—not a hole or loose elastic in sight. Looking in the full-length mirror, I suddenly wondered why. This wasn't a real date. And I certainly didn't intend for Hollowell to get this close to skin. But it felt good, and lately I hadn't had much chance to dress up. I had even shaved my legs.
I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in one hand, sheer black pantyhose in the other.
"It's a public place. What's he going to do, whack me in front of God and everyone?"
More than once during this conversation, I wished I hadn't told Greg about the two newspaper articles or the corporate stuff. Maybe it was naïve on my part, but I didn't expect him to react quite so strongly.
Fortunately, I hadn't told Zee yet about the new developments. She wasn't home when I called after work, so I just left a message that I was going out to dinner. I knew she'd be as agitated as Greg if she knew about Hollowell's past.
It was a ritual, a safety device Zee and I had set up a long time ago. No matter where I went, if I was on a date with someone new, I would call and leave the information with Zee and Seth, or at least on their answering machine. If I ever ended up a missing person, it would give them some clue where to start looking. I'd done the same when I met Greg for breakfast.
I stopped dressing and tried to reason once more with Greg. "Besides, look at Hollowell's track record. If the articles do link him to those deaths, it certainly doesn't look like he gets his own hands dirty. Seems to me he's more of a remote control kind of killer, not a hands-on killer." There was a pause. "And he'll never loosen up with you there, admit it."
"I could just be there," he insisted, "in the background. You know, blend in."
"No."
I tried shouldering the phone while I struggled into my hose. It wasn't working. "Greg, hang on a minute."
I put the phone down. First, I slipped one foot into the silky fabric, then the other, working the nylon up my legs, a little at a time, one side at a time. Standing, I finished pulling the tight weave up and over my generous behind, grunting along the way. Gawd, I hate control top pantyhose. Every time I wore them, I waited for the elastic fibers to give, exploding like thousands of wild broken springs capable of putting an eye out.
Satisfied finally with the fit, I picked up the phone again. "Sorry, just had to pull on my hose."
"Too bad you don't have a web cam," Greg said with a wicked laugh. "Would love to see that."
"You wish, mister."
We laughed together, easing the tension.
"Seriously, Odelia, please be careful. You'll have your cell phone with you, won't you?"
"Won't fit in my evening bag." It was true. My favorite evening bag was a satin envelope not much bigger than a thank you note. It barely held essentials such as keys, driver's license, money, linen hankie, and lipstick.
"Damn it, woman! Take a bigger bag! Better yet, call me just before you see him and leave the phone on so I can hear everything."
"Greg," I said with a sigh, "I'll be fine. I promise you I'll call as soon as I get home."
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart, bra and everything."
"One more promise, Odelia?"
"You're using up precious promises, Greg. You might want to bank a few for later."
He chuckled, then said in a serious tone, "Promise me you'll use valet parking."
"Valet parking?"
"Yes, valet parking. Promise me you won't park in some lot where he can walk you alone to your car. I need to know you'll be standing in front of a well-lit building with other people when he says goodbye to you."
I hesitated, thinking about his request.
"Damn it!" he said, almost shouting. "I'll even pay for it."
Now I felt bad. He was genuinely concerned about me and I was yanking his chain.
"Greg," I said softly and seriously, "I promise to use valet parking. And I promise I'll call tonight. And thank you for being so sweet and caring. It's much appreciated. Really. Now I have to finish dressing. Talk to you later." I hesitated. "I promise."
I hung up and slipped on my dress, thinking about Greg an
d wishing I was dressing to go out with him instead of Hollowell. I was wearing my favorite outfit, a black lace sleeveless sheath with a low cut neckline. The hemline ended a couple of inches above my chubby knees. Sticking my feet into low spiked heels, I looked into the mirror, taking stock of the goods.
Reaching down the front of my dress and into one cup of my black silk bra, I hoisted a saggy breast, rearranging it so the nipple looked upward under the smooth fabric. I did the same with the other side, then checked to see if they were even. My cleavage was definitely saying hello.
If Hollowell was into full figures, then he was into boobs, and that was one talent I had by the handful. There were questions to be planted and answers to harvest, and I wasn't coming home without some satisfaction. If I had to seduce the truth out of him, so be it. One BBW Mata Hari coming up!
Grabbing a lace shawl that matched the dress, I took one last look in the mirror. My palms were sweaty, my knees knocked.
I looked like a pot roast in mourning.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE PARKING GARAGE looked tempting...and free. It was after normal business hours so the ticket gate was up. I slowed just before making the turn into the concrete and steel structure. Straight ahead was the driveway for the restaurant's valet parking.
Contemplating, I pulled over to the curb. I hated valet parking, especially in Newport Beach. My car was a fifteen-year-old silver Toyota Camry. It was in excellent condition, but in car years, more than ready for Medicare. I had bought it new and saw no good reason to give it up now.
Valet attendants usually sniffed at me when I pulled up behind Beemers and Benzes. A forty-something fat woman driving an old, four-door family sedan did not make their night. Let's face it, this city didn't earn the nickname New Porsche Beach because of its tolerance of frugality.
But I had promised Greg.
And he was right. I shouldn't put myself in any more potential danger than I had already. Moving ahead, I pulled into the valet area directly behind a brand spanking new Lexus. While I waited my turn, I stored my cell phone in my glove compartment after making sure the lock was activated. Yes, I had brought it. It still didn't fit into my black satin evening bag, but I figured I could call Greg as soon as I left for home.
After giving my keys to a young surfer dude wearing a valet's jacket, I entered the restaurant. I saw Hollowell immediately. Sitting at a table on the edge of the dining area, he looked confident, in control, and deadly. He was dressed fashionably in a dark silk suit and white shirt with a banded collar. I bet he and Mike Steele shopped some of the same places. He smiled at me and stood up. Giving him my best coat hanger-induced smile, I headed his way, threading carefully through occupied tables. My walk was tenuous, my stomach knotted.
I gave myself a quick pep talk...silently. I sure didn't want Hollowell thinking I was the type to mumble to myself like a relative locked in an attic. Though I am. Something told me he wouldn't find it endearing, but instead a fault to be used against me as a weapon. He seemed the type.
"Well, hello, Odelia," he said, leaning forward to give me a quick peck on the cheek.
I stiffened slightly at his nearness.
"Don't you look scrumptious," he added, staring openly at my bulging boobies.
Scrumptious? Like a pastry waiting to be devoured? I murmured a thank you, sitting down in the chair he pulled out for me.
The dark elegance of his suit and the whiteness of his hip shirt set off his coloring splendidly, especially his thick salt-and-pepper hair. Looking around quickly, I took stock of the other patrons. Hollowell was easily the most handsome and successful looking man in the room.
"Would you like a cocktail?" he asked, his fingers resting lightly on my hand. In front of him was a glass that looked barely touched. I guessed it to be Chivas, as before.
"Yes," I replied with a saccharine smile, "A champagne cocktail would be nice. Thank you."
He waved a waiter over and placed my order. It appeared at the table almost instantly. He held up his glass in a toast. In turn, I held up my flute.
"To new friends and possibilities," he said, clinking his glass against mine.
Having no intention of being his friend, I didn't second the toast, but kept smiling and sipped my drink. As for future possibilities, I only wanted to toast the possibility of finding enough information to link Hollowell to Sophie's murder. But I was at a loss for a tactful opening. It wasn't like I could just open my mouth and ask why he did it. Or how? Or, tell me, John, just how many deaths are you responsible for?
Fortunately, he picked up the lag in the conversation. "I'm afraid we can't be out too late tonight. Hope you don't mind."
Without thinking, I shot a barb his way, right off the top of my head. "What's the matter, wife have you on a curfew?" Crap! I wanted to entice him into loose conversation, not cop an attitude and give away my true feelings about his creepiness.
He laughed. "That's what I like about you, Odelia, you've got moxie. A beautiful woman, high in spirit, with a sharp and intelligent tongue—can't beat 'em."
"Who, me? And here I always thought I was just a bitch."
He laughed deeply, took a gulp from his glass and continued. "No, my wife doesn't have me on a curfew. Clarice and I have an understanding."
"An understanding," I repeated. "Usually, that means the man wanders, while the little woman keeps her mouth shut and spends his money like a drunken sailor on leave."
If he liked moxie, I'd give him moxie by the mouthful. He obviously liked his word duels scrappy. It made me wonder about his sexual preferences.
He gave me his signature chuckle. "Sounds like you've been married."
"Nope," I said, shaking my head. "Never. But I've been hit on by many a married man with an understanding wife."
He grinned and looked at me. This time his eyes appraised me thoughtfully, completely. I could feel him weighing my worth. I took another drink. My nerves were settling, my purpose for this charade rising to the top.
"So," I said, continuing, "why can't be we out late if it has nothing to do with Mrs. Hollowell?" Inside I was relieved. I had wondered how I was going to extricate myself from his company later in the evening.
"Because," he said, leaning in, stroking the inside of my right arm with a feathery touch, "I need to get up early and drive to San Diego in the morning. There's a golf tournament. Care to come along?"
"You mean you're going alone?"
"No, not alone. With a friend. But I can take her another time."
"A friend? I'm flattered. You'd break the heart of your mistress for little ole me?" I took another drink and gazed at him over the top of my glass. It was behavior right out of a sleazy soap opera and I knew I would rot in hell for this absurdity alone.
"Say the word, Odelia. A suite at the best hotel, a shopping spree."
I hesitated, pretending to give it thought. "The word, John, is no. Sorry."
"I'll just have to ask better next time." He smiled. "You ready to order?" We made our selections and Hollowell ordered a bottle of wine to go with dinner. He would have been the perfect date if not for one teeny reason. Well, okay, many not so teeny reasons, beginning with the debris of suspicious deaths in his life, including his own son's.
"So, tell me," I began, getting down to business, "do you and Clarice have any children?"
"Awww, now why would you want to spoil a perfectly good evening talking about my family?" He covered my hand with one of his and squeezed gently, leaving it there. To the casual observer, I'm sure we looked like a comfy couple in the glow of early courtship.
"Because I want to get to know you, John," I said with a slight purr. Yep, Odelia, you are definitely going to hell.
The waiter came over with the wine just as Hollowell was about to say something. He went through the ritual of swirling a sample in his glass, sniffing it, and giving it a taste. It was a Merlot, dark as black raspberries. Satisfied, he nodded to the waiter who then served me first.
Next ca
me our salads. Finally, we were alone again.
"You were about to tell me something," I prodded.
"Yes, seeing that you're interested." He looked at me with slightly narrowed eyes, took a bite of salad, and chewed thoughtfully. "There's a daughter by my wife's first marriage. She's in her mid-twenties, married, and lives outside Chicago. We hardly see her anymore. Also, we had a son many years ago. He died suddenly when he was an infant, case of crib death."
I studied his face. It told me nothing, a blank. He seemed neither sad nor lost in memory. His words were even and non-committal, like he was simply giving directions.
"I'm very sorry, John."
"Long time ago," he said, giving me a slow grin.
I plowed on, trying more of a direct approach. "Did you always know that Sophie had a son?"
He looked at me strangely, his eyes narrowing again, and said, "Of course, didn't you?"
"No," I admitted, wide-eyed and innocent. "She kept real quiet about it. In fact, she hardly spoke about you. Why do you think she didn't talk to me, or any of our other mutual friends, about her son? I find it very disconcerting."
Hollowell ate on. In a few more bites he was done with his salad. The waiter came over and cleared his plate away.
"I'm finished also," I said to our waiter.
The waiter was a swarthy man with gaunt cheeks, a thin black mustache, and eyes of India ink. He nodded silently and whisked my half-eaten salad away along with Hollowell's empty plate.
Hollowell took my hand again. "Honestly, Odelia, I don't know why she didn't talk about him. I didn't think it was a secret, though she never saw the boy. I can guess why she didn't tell you about me—jealousy. She was very insecure about me and other women. You do know we'd been lovers for years?"
I nodded.
"She probably thought you'd woo me away from her." He reached up a hand and stroked my cheek softly.
Too Big To Miss Page 17